


A Supernatural Entity's Guide to Picnicking Responsibly

by cyankelpie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale gets a smartphone, Baked Goods, Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Fluff, Gifts, Look I just really appreciate all that yeast does for us, Other, Quarantine, Sorry but you're a coward if you think these two can't handle long-distance for a few months, They basically invented it, lockdown - Freeform, social distancing, sourdough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: There has to be a middle ground between breaking the lockdown rules and not speaking to Crowley until July. Aziraphale has two days to find it and convince Crowley to stay awake.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 155
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Good Omens Lockdown fics





	A Supernatural Entity's Guide to Picnicking Responsibly

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the flood of lockdown fics that took over this fandom since [this video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=quSXoj8Kob0)

Aziraphale sat there looking at the phone for several minutes after he had hung up. He picked up a black currant scone (one of approximately three dozen currently stacked on various flat surfaces around the bookshop) and nibbled a corner. The scone wasn’t making him feel any better. “July?” he muttered out loud.

That wasn’t at all the outcome he had been hoping for. He had actually been planning on extending an invitation to Crowley, on the grounds that he needed to be supervised and contained where someone more responsible could keep him from going out and causing mayhem. But that reasoning assumed that he was already out and about, when in actuality he was already shut up in his home like he ought to be. And was apparently planning on sleeping until July.

That would be two months where he wouldn’t answer the phone. Aziraphale would have no one to talk to, unless you counted his human friends, but that wasn’t the same. He wasn’t miserable—he had been honest about that, even if he had oversold it a bit by listing everything he’d baked trying to keep himself sane—but he probably would be if Crowley disappeared until July.

He picked up the phone, wondered what he was doing, and then put it back. He couldn’t just call Crowley back and take him up on the offer to shelter in place together, could he? Rules were rules, and Aziraphale was Aziraphale. He had already broken quite a few rules for Crowley, and big ones, but a person could only change so much in a year.

Plus, the restrictions were put in place to protect them—Or, to protect the humans, and though Crowley and Aziraphale were fairly certain by this point that they couldn’t catch human illnesses, there was no way of telling whether or not they could transmit them. Plus, it might give people bad ideas if they saw Crowley on his way over here, or noticed more silhouettes than usual through the blinds. They ought to set a good example for everyone else.

But really, were those the only two options? Either break lockdown, or not talk to each other until July? There had to be a middle ground somewhere.

The scone had disappeared without Aziraphale noticing, so he picked up another and started to eat that one too. Crowley had said two days. That meant Aziraphale had two days to convince him to stay awake through the rest of this ordeal. He looked around the bookshop and started brainstorming.

The phone rang, jolting Crowley out of the stupor that the TV had lulled him into. He didn’t even know anymore what reality show he was watching. Netflix had chosen for him after he had finished the finale of the last one, and hadn’t felt like reaching for the remote to stop the autoplay. This one wasn’t any better than any of the others.

Why was the phone ringing? The only person who ever called him was Aziraphale, and they had talked just earlier this afternoon. Was he calling to take Crowley up on his offer? Part of him hoped so, but he knew the angel had a point about the lockdown rules. He’d only suggested it because he was so soul-crushingly bored, and he couldn’t help but worry a little about someone who baked that much. It was a bad sign if Aziraphale had more desserts than he could eat by himself.

“Hey,” he said, picking up the phone.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale’s voice. “It’s me again.”

“Obviously, it’s you. What’s up?”

“Well, I, ah. I’m glad I caught you before you went off to sleep. You might want to look outside.”

Crowley glanced out the window. “Yeah’, s’a nice sunny day, and we’re not supposed to go out and enjoy it. Thanks.”

“Outside your front door, I mean.”

Crowley’s spirits rose. Had he really…? But he had just said…But Crowley did want so much to see him right now… “You didn’t.”

“Look outside, please.”

Grinning, Crowley ran to the door and opened it. There was nobody there. He probably should have guessed that by the fact that Aziraphale was currently on the phone with him and did not own a mobile. Probably good that he was staying home and being responsible. Still, Crowley couldn’t help it if his spirits fell a little.

Instead of Aziraphale, a wicker basket with a lid sat just outside his threshold. Crowley, who’s past experiences with mysterious baskets had made him wary of them, eyed it suspiciously. This one was lined with Aziraphale’s personal tartan, so it was probably safe. “What’s this?”

“I miracled it over,” said Aziraphale. “Have you opened it?”

Gingerly, in case it might start trying to destroy the world (unlikely, but one could never be too careful), Crowley picked up the basket, carried it over the threshold, and looked inside. On top was half a sourdough boule. “Oh,” said Crowley sarcastically. “Glad I could give you another target to offload your baked goods onto.”

“It isn’t just the bread, Crowley. Although there is that, and also a bit of cake, and one or two scones…”

“I count five scones,” said Crowley, shifting the bread and looking underneath. “Oh, and there’s number six. What’s this about?”

“I know you don’t eat,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley could practically hear him wringing his hands. “I just thought perhaps we could have a, er, socially-distant picnic. Before you started your nap.”

“Oh.” Crowley was touched. “It’s a little depressing, but sure, if you want.” He set the basket on the counter in his barely-used kitchen and started unpacking the basket. There were, in total, eight scones, as well as a generous slice of devil’s food cake, which seemed a little on the nose, but he’d allow it on the grounds that it was Aziraphale. He also pulled out a small container of butter, a wedge of gruyère, and, to his delight, a bottle of pinot noir. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but I’d have been perfectly happy with just the wine, you know,” he said, rummaging through the drawers for a corkscrew.

“It’s not a proper picnic without food,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“It’s not a proper picnic if it’s inside, either.”

“Well, somebody has to eat all these cakes and scones,” said Aziraphale, impatiently.

Crowley glanced at the cake, which looked like it had been recently iced, but didn’t comment. He didn’t usually eat, true, but he could make an exception this time. “If you’re looking for someone in need of sweets,” he said, twisting the corkscrew, “Newt could probably use a cake or three. Don’t know if you’ve heard, but Anathema dumped him last week.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you had kept in touch,” said Aziraphale. “What happened?”

Crowley grunted as he pulled out the corkscrew, and then poured himself a glass. He had only talked to Anathema because she wanted to ask if he knew how to un-burn a book. He didn’t. He still didn’t know where she’d gotten his number from. “Well, apparently Agnes Nutter wrote a sequel.”

“A what?” Aziraphale practically shouted, and Crowley considered that perhaps he ought to have phrased that differently to such an enthusiastic book collector. “Then she—she knew about all of this? Why didn’t she warn—”

“Easy, Aziraphale. The book’s gone. Newt talked her into burning it.”

There was a silence, and then Aziraphale shrieked, “ _What?_ ” even louder than the first time.

“Yeah, from what I heard, that’s about how she reacted, too, once things got crazy,” said Crowley, taking a sip of the wine. He started looking around for a bread knife he didn’t own but was going to find in his drawer anyway. “Could have stocked up on toilet paper and hand sanitizer to last a year, or invested in zoom and gotten rich, but—”

“I don’t think that boy deserves any cakes,” said Aziraphale furiously.

“He had no way of knowing this would happen.”

“He destroyed an irreplaceable manuscript!” Aziraphale yelled into the phone. “I was _so_ wrong about his character. Anathema deserves better.”

“Yeah, everyone’s been saying that for months.” Crowley had found the bread knife and cut a slice of the sourdough, which he topped with some butter and cheese. “They weren’t going to last anyway. They hooked up in the middle of the apocalypse because a book told them to.”

“I just can’t imagine what possessed them to…” Aziraphale sighed. “They could have given the book to me, if they didn’t want to read it themselves! They both know I run a bookshop.”

Aziraphale was going to be stuck on the book thing for a while, unless Crowley changed the subject. He probably shouldn’t have brought it up. Of course it would only upset the angel. “Anyway, you heard anything from Shadwell and Tracy?” he asked, and took a bite of the bread and cheese. “I know they’ve basically been social distancing from each other since the day they met, but—”

He broke off and looked down at the bread in his hand, a little shocked. “Aziraphale, you made this?”

“Well, yes, assuming you are referring to one of the baked goods—”

“This might be the best bread I’ve ever eaten.” He took another bite, and washed it down with the wine. They went together fantastically well, along with the cheese. Aziraphale would never assemble anything less than a perfect meal.

“Oh, good,” he said, sounding pleased. “The whole process did take two days, so I certainly hope it turned out well. My starter has developed quite nicely,” he added, with a touch of pride. “She’s become quite prolific.”

“Give her my compliments.” Crowley brought his snack and the phone to the kitchen table so he could sit down. “You remember when they first started leavening bread?”

“Do I _remember_ —?”

“Well, of course you do, you wouldn’t shut up about it for centuries,” said Crowley. “I still shudder every time I hear the phrase ‘best thing since sliced bread.’”

“I didn’t know it was going to catch on like that.” Aziraphale’s tone suggested that he was not at all sorry it had.

Crowley took another sip of wine. “You know I told my bosses that bread was one of mine?”

“You—What?”

“Well, the whole idea of fermentation,” he said. “Bread, cheese, alcohol…”

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, “you tried to take credit for the natural process of fermentation?”

“Y—No! Obviously, not the process itself, just using it in food and drinks. Gluttony, you know.” He paused to engage in some gluttony himself. “But then the bible came out, and it was all ‘bread’ this, and ‘bread’ that. Bloody embarrassing for me, that was.”

“I believe wine was also featured rather prominently.”

“Yeah, endorsed by Jesus himself,” said Crowley ruefully, and took another bite of bread. “Well, whoever’s idea it was, it’s brilliant.” He held up his glass. “I hope you’ve got something fermented to toast with?”

“Of course. This is a joint picnic, after all.”

Crowley raised his glass. “To the little guys! The yeasts.”

“To the yeasts!” Aziraphale echoed, sounding amused. “You know, if you enjoy the bread…”

Crowley realized his mistake and groaned. “You’re gonna drown me in sourdough, aren’t you?”

“I certainly have the means,” said Aziraphale. He cleared his throat. “We could…do this again, same time tomorrow?”

Crowley grinned. He’d been hoping Aziraphale would say that. “Sure, angel.”

Crowley’s phone rang considerably earlier the next day than the time they had planned on, which was fine with him. “Is it that time already?” he asked sarcastically, putting the phone on speaker.

“Sorry, was I interrupting something?” Aziraphale replied with equal sarcasm.

“You know you’re not.” Crowley had only rolled out of bed an hour and a half ago, yelled at his plants a little, and then done a bit of preparation for the picnic. “Should I check my doorstep, then?”

“Please do.”

Crowley opened the door to find another picnic basket (how many did Aziraphale have?), which he carried inside. “Oof—It’s a bit heavier this time,” he said. “Isn’t bread supposed to have air in it?”

“It’s not just bread.”

Crowley took it inside and opened it, half-expecting to find an entire wheel of cheese, or maybe the better part of a wine cellar. The other half of yesterday’s sourdough loaf was on top, with another wine bottle tucked underneath and a rectangular package wrapped in cloth and tied with a string. “Bit less of an impressive spread than yesterday,” he commented.

“Well, I ran out of cheese,” said Aziraphale. “Or, at least, nothing I have left will pair with any of my wines.”

Crowley made a sympathetic noise and reached for the cloth-wrapped bundle in the other half of the basket. “So what else’ve you put in here?” he asked, unwrapping it. “A few bricks, or—”

He caught a glimpse of leather binding and dropped the cloth and jumped back as if the basket contained a bomb. “Gyeh. Think you made a mistake, A-Aziraphale,” he managed to get out. “There’s books in here.”

“Yes, I know,” said the angel, perfectly calm. “I put them there.”

Crowley swallowed, stepped forward cautiously, and tugged the cloth out of the way and wrapped his hand in it. Then, as carefully as if he were handling a newborn child, he lifted out _Oliver Twist, Great Expectations,_ and _A Tale of Two Cities_ , and set them on the table _._ “You put these here on purpose?”

“You did emphasize yesterday how dreadfully bored you were,” said Aziraphale. “I know you don’t read much, but I remember how you enjoyed Dickens’ writing style. I thought, perhaps, they might provide something to pass the time.”

Aziraphale had never entrusted Crowley with even one of his precious books, except when the world was at stake and he had no choice. Crowley looked at them from a respectful distance, afraid to even touch them. “I don’t think I can take these,” he said, a little hoarse. “What if—what if something happens to them? What if I use one as a coaster by accident?”

“Don’t worry about that, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “These are hardly valuable copies. I think I’ve used that _Oliver Twist_ as a coaster once or twice myself.

Hands shaking, Crowley picked that one up. It might not be a first edition, but it still looked very old. The spine was weak from use, and the edges of the pages were worn. There was, indeed, a tea stain on the title page, and as he flipped through it he saw that there were notes scribbled in the margins. “Aziraphale,” he said, a little choked. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

“You needn’t say anything, my dear,” said Aziraphale gently. “I didn’t mean to make you emotional. Let’s open the wine and get on with the picnic.”

“Sure, lemme just—get these somewhere safe—” Crowley stacked up the books and carried them into the living room, where they would be safe from any stray crumbs or drops of wine. If Aziraphale didn’t intend for him to use them, he would have kept them locked in the safe behind the Mona Lisa sketch. No harm would come to them while he yet lived, he swore, glancing at them over his shoulder as he returned to the kitchen.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he said, when the books were taken care of. “I sent something over for you, too. Not much, but, er.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, sounding delightfully surprised, as if he didn’t know Crowley would take the first available excuse to send him gifts. “You didn’t have to, Crowley. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Crowley made a noise and sat down to open the wine. His gift would be a bit of a letdown now. He wished he’d had more time to figure something out. It was hard to find something Aziraphale might like when he couldn’t actually go anywhere to look for something, and the angel was already overloaded with sweets.

He heard Aziraphale set down his phone, because the thing still had a cord, for Somebody’s sake, and the bell at the door tinkled distantly. “Why Crowley,” said Aziraphale, returning a moment later.

“Just, y’know, something to brighten up the shop,” said Crowley hurriedly. It was nothing, really, compared to the books. He had to pick from things he already had in his apartment, so earlier that morning he’d stalked menacingly around the plant room for a little bit until his eyes settled on his medallion calanthea, which he then took into another room, shut the door, and told it that, even if he’d never told it so, it was the best of the bunch, which was why he’d picked it for a very important job, and if it even thought about letting him down he would make it wish it had never sprouted.

“It’s beautiful, my dear.” He could hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice. “I’ve never seen leaves so strikingly patterned.”

Crowley straightened a little proudly. Yeah, he’d done an okay job raising it, he liked to think. He sure hoped so. Couldn’t have Aziraphale stuck looking at a wilting plant. “Should’ve been a little box there, too.”

“Yes, I’m opening it now.” He heard a rustle, and then there was a pause. “Well,” said Aziraphale, in the tone of voice of someone who has just received a gift and can’t think of anything nice to say about it.

“It’s an iPhone,” Crowley explained. “Had a few old spares lying around.” He didn’t mention that he had somehow bought into the hype surrounding each and every new iPhone release, and had been known to wait in line for hours for a slight improvement on his old phone with one of the ports in a different place.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale in that same tone.

“Everything you need’s already set up,” said Crowley. “Hit the button on the right to unlock it. The passcode’s 1234, and if you can’t remember that, I really don’t know what to tell you.”

There was a pause. “I don’t quite understand why you’ve done this, Crowley.”

“You will,” said Crowley. “Unlock the phone. It’s got my number saved in it already. I’m going to hang up and call you back on the iPhone, okay?”

“I have a perfectly serviceable phone,” Aziraphale protested. “I’m using it right now.”

“Humans are always making clever improvements,” said Crowley. “Just trust me, alright?”

“Alright.” He sounded a little unsure.

Crowley hung up and poured himself a glass of wine. He would likely need it to get through the ordeal of coaching Aziraphale on the use of technology. Then he made a facetime call to the number he’d added to his phone this morning.

The phone rang for an ominously long time. Just when Crowley was starting to lose hope, the bookshop ceiling and the top of Aziraphale’s head appeared on the screen. “Oh, dear. Have I done this right?”

Crowley waved as an unstoppable smile stretched across his face. “Point the screen at yourself, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley!” the camera shifted, and then his angel was on screen, shining with joy and bouncing a little. “I can see you! Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you, my dear.”

“You too, angel.” Crowley pretended like he wasn’t melting on the inside at the sight of that happy face. The window with his own video showed him that he was doing a poor job. Well, who really cared, anyway? “I did say I was gonna _watch_ you eat cake, didn’t I? Are you eating cake right now?”

Aziraphale held up a plate in the frame. “I am either eating or baking something at all times these days.”

“Good.” A well-fed Aziraphale was usually a happy Aziraphale. He looked very happy at the moment, which made Crowley feel better than he had in weeks. “You wanna give me a tour of your new in-house bakery?”

Aziraphale carried the phone around the back room and kitchen to show Crowley the really very alarming number of baked goods he had accumulated, and described each one so animatedly that Crowley couldn’t help but let him ramble on. Crowley was introduced to the sourdough starter, whom he thanked for her service, and also, silently, for giving Aziraphale something to do. When at long last Aziraphale ran out of cakes and loaves to display, he sat down on the sofa, and they drank from separate bottles of wine and chatted about nothing like they usually did. Crowley didn’t realize what time it was until it was already dark outside.

“It’s late,” said Aziraphale. The smile faded out of his eyes. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to go to bed soon.”

“Hm. Maybe.” Crowley looked down at the table. He’d almost forgotten about his plan to sleep until this mess ended. It was still a pretty appealing way to spend the lockdown, but he thought he had some better ways to spend his time now. He cleared his throat. “Er, same time tomorrow?”

Aziraphale beamed. “That sounds lovely, my dear,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you're all staying healthy and safe out there, and I wish you all the best getting through this! <3


End file.
